


Plasticity

by AnotherSpoonyBard



Series: Chaos Theory [5]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Chaos Theory AU, Character Study, Female Friendship, Female-Centric, Friendship, Gen, Male-Female Friendship, Mental Health Issues, Multi, POV Female Character, Personal Growth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-16
Updated: 2016-07-17
Packaged: 2018-07-23 21:10:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7480167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnotherSpoonyBard/pseuds/AnotherSpoonyBard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A plastic object is one that is easily molded. But plasticity has another consequence: once the object has been given the desired shape, it cannot return to what it once was. </p><p>Momo Hinamori was, at every stage, given the exact shape Aizen desired. Even after he betrayed her, her plastic ways of thinking led her to search for any explanation, however implausible, that rendered him innocent. So much of who she was, of who she became, was his decision—never hers. But even if she cannot revert, can never be who she was before him, she can still change. She can mold herself around her pain, and become something stronger than she was before. </p><p>In which Momo learns that her world has not ended, and crazy friends are good for you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Darkness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BiblioMatsuri](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BiblioMatsuri/gifts).



> This takes place in the _Chaos Theory_ AU, some during but mostly after _The Three-Body Problem_. It _might_ read okay as a stand-alone, if you're willing to accept certain non-canon references and character appearances.
> 
> For BiblioMatsuri, without whom Momo _might_ have wound up in the fridge. Albeit with the writer's good intentions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wait, for now.  
> Distrust everything if you have to.  
> But trust the hours. Haven’t they  
> carried you everywhere, up to now?  
> Personal events will become interesting again.  
> Hair will become interesting.  
> Pain will become interesting.  
> Buds that open out of season will become interesting.  
> Second-hand gloves will become lovely again;  
> their memories are what give them  
> the need for other hands. The desolation  
> of lovers is the same: that enormous emptiness  
> carved out of such tiny beings as we are  
> asks to be filled; the need  
> for the new love is faithfulness to the old.
> 
> Wait.  
> Don’t go too early.  
> You’re tired. But everyone’s tired.  
> But no one is tired enough.  
> Only wait a little and listen:  
> music of hair,  
> music of pain,  
> music of looms weaving our loves again.  
> Be there to hear it, it will be the only time,  
> most of all to hear your whole existence,  
> rehearsed by the sorrows, play itself into total exhaustion.
> 
> – _Wait_ – Galway Kinnel

Three years after she’d fallen, Momo Hinamori rose. 

Wakefulness did not come easily; she had slept for so long, and some part of her sleeping self knew that to awake was to face pain she might not be ready for. 

Pain that perhaps, no one was ever ready for. 

When her eyes opened, it was slowly—they felt as heavy as the rest of her. The lights were dim. She couldn’t make much out, except that there were squares above her, grey squares. Ceiling tiles? That seemed right. There was a ceiling above her, then. 

Her chest rose as she pulled in a breath. With it came the smell of sanitizer. Sharp, enforced clean. The rigid forbiddance of dirt or contaminant. There was a ceiling; she was somewhere clean. Momo felt that she should know what that meant, taken together, but her thoughts were sluggish, disjointed, adrift. Observations without meaning. Awareness without understanding. 

She swallowed; doing so brought her hearing back to her. Or at least she was aware of it now. Something was beeping, slow and regular. She tried to raise a hand to her face, only to discover that nothing happened. Her body was not responding to her will. Feeling a little spark of panic, Momo tried again. Still nothing. Her breath quickened. 

What was happening? Why couldn’t she move? Why couldn’t she remember where she was? What had happened? She remembered—she remembered her captain, and then—

(Pain-intrusion-cold. Gasping for a breath; bubbling blood in her lungs. Fading vision. The sun blurring in her eyes.)

“You’re awake.” 

Momo started sharply at the sound of the voice, lurching on… her hospital bed. That’s what she was laying on. Her eyes snapped to the speaker. She recognized… Isane. Shinigami Women’s Association meetings. Isane was the fukutaichō of the Fourth. Sanitizer. Tiles on the ceiling. She was in the Fourth, on a hospital bed, and she could not remember why. 

“Is—” She tried to speak, but her voice rasped and cracked, weathered dry from disuse. How long, she wondered—how long had it been since she spoke?

Isane was at her side immediately. “Shh,” she said. “You’re all right, Hinamori-san. Let me check a few things, and then I’ll get you something to drink, I promise.”

Momo tried to nod—what she ended up with was a jerky motion that didn’t much match her intentions, but Isane seemed to understand. Her gloved hands were warm as she picked up Momo’s wrist, checking what she felt against one of the monitors. Only then did Momo notice the web of wires and tubes she was connected to. Spindle-strings from her body to all kinds of machines she’d forgotten the names of. Red-blue-green wires, telling someone what her heart was doing, what her lungs were doing, what her brain was doing. Her temples suddenly felt itchy where the ends were stuck to her. 

She didn’t think she wanted anyone else to see inside her just now. Not when she didn’t know what was there herself. 

But Isane’s touch was gentle, and she used soft words that Momo recognized, saying things like _recovery_ and _steady_ and _good vitals_. So Momo let herself believe, for a while, that everything was going to be okay. 

When the other woman returned with a glass of water in-hand, she helped Momo relearn how to grip it, and together they raised the glass to her mouth so she could drink.

The first swallow was agony. She felt like something in her throat had split and cracked like dry mud, and a keening whine escaped her. She doubled over, slumping forward from the back of her raised bed. Losing her unsteady grip on the water, Momo folded over herself, pulling the wires attached to her body taut.

There was no crash of glass, no seeping wet spot on her covers—Isane must have caught the cup in enough time to prevent that. She was saying something, but Momo couldn’t make out the words. Instead, she closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around her legs. 

The only thing she felt was the hand rubbing her back.

The only thing she heard was the slow, ponderous beat of her own heart. 

If she could just exist like that forever, maybe it really would be okay.

* * *

It wasn’t until Renji showed up the next day that anyone broke to her what had actually happened. 

(But she’d known. Deep down, she’d known.)

He looked… different. His hair was longer—still just as red, though. But more than that, he was… she couldn’t describe it. She didn’t know the words, for what you were when you’d moved forward by yourself. When you’d stood all on your own and become stronger because you needed it, deep inside yourself. Those words were his words, and all she could do was look at what they’d made him. 

“…Momo.” 

He’d paused before he said it. She didn’t know why. 

(Except that she did.)

His arms were at his sides, his fingers curling and uncurling awkwardly in the fabric of his shihakushō. He looked at her like she was about to break.

Momo thought he might be right, but she didn’t know why _that_ was, either.

(Because what else could she do? Her world had fallen apart.)

She tried to smile, but her face would not move the way she wanted it to. Maybe because she didn’t really want it to after all. “Renji.”

He relaxed just a little—she saw it in the way the angle of his shoulders changed. He’d been holding them a little too high, before. Taking a few more steps into the room, he pulled a chair over to her bedside with the soft scrape of metal legs on linoleum floor. Renji never quite sat properly in any situation, so she wasn’t surprised when he flipped it around and settled with his arms draped over what should have been the backrest. 

“How are you feeling?” He dropped his chin onto his arms, regarding her steadily. 

It was more difficult to answer than it should have been, that question. “Oh, I’m… I’m all right.” It sounded wrong. Like a lie, maybe. 

He nodded slightly against his arms. 

(Drowning. She was drowning in her blood. It flooded into the places air should have been, and she was too weak to cough it up.)

“Renji?” Momo’s fingers clenched in her blankets. 

“Yeah?”

“Can you… can you tell me what happened?” Maybe it wasn’t as she felt. Maybe everything was really okay, and it had all been a nightmare.

(Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

Please.)

“Where is… where is Aizen-taichō?” Her captain should have been the first one in to see her. Would have, no matter what else he was doing. She choked on the thought that something might have happened to him as well. 

Renji’s eyes rounded; he sat up straighter, throat working as he swallowed. “Momo… how much do you remember?”

(Too much. Not enough.)

Her lower lip trembled. “Renji… Renji, where is Aizen-taichō?” Her fists clenched so hard they hurt, even through handfuls of soft fabric. 

“He hurt you, Momo. He betrayed Soul Society, and he left.” Renji said the words slowly, carefully. He met her eyes; held them. She could see that he meant it. 

But of course he couldn’t mean it. What he was suggesting was impossible. Aizen-taichō would never hurt her. He would never betray Soul Society. Never. 

“S-stop joking, Renji. I’m serious.” Momo felt a tremor in her fingers—they cramped from how tightly she’d been clenching them. The tremor became a twitch, a spasm in the muscles of her arm. 

“Momo…” Renji opened his mouth to say more.

But she could not hear it. “No!” The shudder in her limbs crawled further along her skin, sliding up to her shoulders and locking the muscles in her back. “Aizen-taichō would never! You’re a liar, Renji!” 

(Better him than _him_. Better anything than that.)

“I’m not—” He kept his voice steady, mild, like she was still too fragile, still made of glass, shaking and about to shatter. 

The tremor was almost to her heart. She lunged. 

Her wires and tubes went with her; the motion wrenched a smaller machine from a stand and sent it crashing to the floor. Several of the monitor wires, red-blue-green, tore free of her skin, her aching flesh, leaving raw patches behind. 

Her body was repaired, but it was weak. Renji caught her by the wrists—she had thoughts only to hurt him, to make him take back everything he’d said, was going to say, could have said, was _thinking_. 

“He would _never_!” she shrieked. 

Her hands, cramped and rigid and sore, sought purchase on him. She clawed, but met only air—the hold he had her in was fast. His fingers were rough against the thin skin of her wrists, like his calluses might catch and rip her apart, put runs in her skin like runs in silk. 

“Momo, stop, please. Get ahold of yourself!” Renji’s volume increased, but his voice had no anger. 

All of the anger, all of the hurt, belonged solely to her. 

(Liar. Liar. _Liar_.)

She wrenched in his grip, trying to free herself. Her legs lashed, tangled in hospital blanket. Momo could not recall when she had begun to cry, but the tears were hot in her eyes too. They stung like his calluses, like something too rough dragged over something too soft. 

“He would never… he would… he would…” She sucked in a breath; her whole body shuddered, from her heart down to her toes. “Aizen-taichō would never… hurt me…”

Darkness closed around her, and Momo lost consciousness.

* * *

Her inner world had never been so dim before. 

It was a meadow, with gently rolling hills, a few trees, and wildflowers dotting the fresh shoots of spring grass as far as the eye could see. 

But where once there had been a bright yellow sun in the sky above her, it was covered now with ominous thunderheads, lightning crackling between them and giving the entire landscape a sinister aspect it had never before possessed. Wind whipped at her from behind, throwing her hair in front of her face and buffeting her forward. 

Momo tried to take small steps, to control her motion. But for all her effort, she was still more or less pushed beneath a familiar plum tree. She planted her back to it and eased her way around, taking shelter from the snapping wind. 

That was where she found Tobiume. 

The zanpakutō spirit had the appearance of a young girl; a child, really—someone just on the cusp of adolescence. Momo collapsed into her arms anyway, winding her own around Tobiume’s waist and burying her face in the spirit’s shoulder. 

Tobiume stroked her hair, even though there were knots and tangles in it from the wind and her fingers caught. Momo felt the pulls as little pricks of pain—she had no heed for them.

What tears had not fallen in the outer world fell now, all the rest of them. Momo sobbed bitterly, each new breath tearing out of her with force she was ashamed by. She burned with her sorrow, with her shame—but Tobiume held steady.

Her feelings drained with the tears, and when she finally pulled away—a blotchy-faced, hiccupping mess with sore eyes and snot dripping from her nose—she was at least numb enough to pass for calm. Carefully, she sank backwards, finding the hard trunk of the tree easy to rest against. Her legs sprawled in front of her; Momo wove her hands together in her lap, focusing on her breathing. 

Inhale, exhale. Inhale… exhale. 

Inhale—she had been unkind to Renji.

Exhale—but she couldn’t believe what he said. 

Inhale—but he believed it. 

Exhale—it was right there in his face. Open and easy to read. 

Inhale—she’d been stabbed.

Exhale—but it could not have been her captain. He would never. 

A sob wrenched its way from her throat. “Oh, Tobiume… what do I do?”

The zanpakutō’s spirit sat beside her, legs crossed, sorrow in the lines of her face. “You keep breathing, Momo.”

* * *

She woke to the sound of humming. How many days had it been now? It was hard to keep track of the time. 

Her only visitors after Renji had been members of the Fourth. Their names escaped her, though she was usually good at remembering. There was Isane, who she knew, and a boy with dark hair and a nervous smile. And her other nurse, a pretty girl with gentle eyes.

(Like _his_ eyes.) 

Observations, without meaning. 

The humming, it seemed, was coming from her left. It felt like great effort to turn her head, but when she did, it was to see a familiar face. 

Kiyone Kotetsu didn’t look much like her sister, except perhaps in the shape of her nose. Nearly a foot shorter, and with wheat-colored hair instead of silver. She was adjusting several flowers in a vase Momo hadn’t really noticed until now. Pink roses, by the look of them. 

Belatedly, she realized Momo was looking at her. “Oh!” 

Grinning, Kiyone set the vase upright. “Good morning, Momo! I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“I… no, Kotetsu-san.”

Kiyone grimaced. “You don’t have to be so formal. We’re both in the SWA, right? Just call me Kiyone.” 

Momo blinked rapidly several times, trying to reconcile Kiyone’s manner with everything she was feeling. No matter the angle, though, it didn’t seem to fit. “I… all right.”

“I’m glad you woke up,” Kiyone continued, oblivious to Momo’s dilemma. “I feel kind of bad nicking the flowers from the captain’s garden if no one’s here to see them.” She ran a hand through her short hair, ruffling it at the back. 

“Not that that’s the only reason I’m glad you’re awake, of course. There’s lots more.”

Momo really doubted it, but she didn’t say so. 

“Kiyone-san?”

“Yeah?” She canted her head to the side, fingers still threaded through the hair at the edge of her crown. 

“Could you… I think I’d like to be alone right now, if you don’t mind.”

Kiyone’s eyes went wide. “Oh. Oh, I’m sorry! Of course. Uh… I’ll be back next week with new flowers, if that’s okay?”

Momo didn’t have it in her to say no, so she only nodded her head once. 

“All right, good. Umm… I’ll leave you be, then. Hope you’re feeling better soon, Momo!” She waved once, a sharp gesture—almost like she was hurrying to do it. Then she ducked out of the door, and was gone.

Momo stared at the flowers for an hour after she’d left.

* * *

“…He really attacked me, didn’t he?”

Momo fixed a blank look forward—one of the trees in her meadow was burning. A bolt of lightning had struck it with a splitting crack, but not one drop of rain fell to dampen the flames. It just burned. 

Tobiume pulled in a breath with a soft sound, and held it for several seconds. “Yes. He did.”

The fire was really mesmerizing to watch. It was so beautiful, but it blackened and charred everything it touched, twisting and warping the wood that gave it life. Looking at it for too long hurt, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away. 

Everything about him had soothed her. The soft sound of his voice—the light tenor of it was almost musical. She heard nothing else when he spoke. He smelled like cedar boughs and steel, both scents that had always lingered around the division. To Momo, it had become the smell of _home_. His touch was delicate—always delicate, with her. She had craved it like an addict. She still did. 

He was the sun in her world. A bright star, a gravitational force; and, like a tree, she’d grown only because of his presence. 

And in his absence, she, like this tree in front of her eyes, would wither and decay, blacken and burn. 

It was inevitable.

* * *

With little else to do, Momo counted the days. 

She had a few regular visitors. Renji came almost every day. Kiyone at least once a week. Rangiku and Nanao had both been by; she’d even seen Hisagi once.

But such awareness of these regularities made it much more obvious what was missing. 

She couldn’t blame them for not coming. She knew she was unpleasant company. Physically, she was completely fine. She could stand and walk; Isane regularly made her do so, just to keep her muscles from atrophying. 

But she had no _reason_ to do any of it, really. So she didn’t.

* * *

On the first day of her second month awake, someone new entered. 

“Tōshirō-kun?” Momo remembered watermelons in summer and scrubbing her hand through fluffy white hair. 

But even she had to admit he didn’t look like Shiro-chan anymore. He looked more like Hitsugaya-taichō than she’d ever seen. It was difficult to read his face, even for her, who had known him so much longer than anyone. His eyes were half-lidded, his brows heavy. He wore a frown, the sharp edges of a scowl blunted by something else. 

“Hinamori.” He stepped into the room, cautiously. His eyes found the flowers—white camellias, this week—and flickered over the rest of the room before landing on her with a strange finality. 

“I’m sorry,” she blurted. Momo bit down on her tongue. She hadn’t known she was going to say that. 

He blinked; the frown deepened. “For what?”

“I… I attacked you. When—” She couldn’t make herself say it. Her chest ached; it was a throbbing, bleeding wound still. It hurt too much to speak of. 

Tōshirō shook his head once, tersely. Like he was trying to jar an unwanted thought out of it. Momo didn’t desire to know what that thought was. 

“Don’t worry about it, Hinamori. It’s done already, and I’m fine.”

 _But you’re not_ , the silence echoed. 

Momo dropped her eyes to her lap, smoothing out the pale blue blanket on her bed. It was soft—flannel, maybe. Isane had brought it. Her lower lip trembled, but she was out of tears, for the moment. All of them had been used up the night before. And the night before that. And the twenty-nine nights before that. 

“What’s going on out there, Tōshirō-kun? No one says anything, but… but we’re going to war, aren’t we?”

Tōshirō hesitated, a muscle in his jaw jumping when he gritted his teeth. He crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall. He hadn’t come in much further than the doorway. “Yes. We are.”

“It’s…” Momo didn’t want to ask. But she had to. “It’s against Aizen-taichō, isn’t it?” 

(And he had a smile so bright she almost couldn’t look—but she had to, because that one was only for her. She could go blind looking at it, and she wouldn’t care. Because it was him. 

Her heart faltered; she bled a little more.)

He nodded. 

“Tōshirō-kun. Will you promise me...?”

A crease appeared between his brows. It should have concerned her—that he looked so much older than he used to—but it didn’t. It couldn’t. 

(There was no room in an empty heart. Wasn’t that strange?)

“Promise me you’ll just talk to him. I’m sure Aizen-taichō must have had a reason for all of this. Ichimaru must have tricked him, or—”

Tōshirō’s breath hissed out from between his teeth. “No, Momo,” he said. “He’s not innocent. He’s not deceived. _He_ did this. _He_ almost killed you. Not Ichimaru, not anyone else. _Aizen_.”

(But his touch was so warm and gentle—the way the pads of his fingers brushed over her cheek. His lips at her hairline were tender, and the contact lit her up from the inside. She absorbed his nearness like photosynthesis, and she opened to the sun. 

He could never really _mean_ to hurt her, no matter what anyone said.)

“Aizen-taichō,” she murmured.

Tōshirō flinched, turning and leaving the room without another word. 

It was probably better for both of them that way.

* * *

The tiny nurse was back—the one who looked like a little doll. 

Momo didn’t know if that was a rude thing to think about someone else or not. But this girl been coming in for three months, and still she didn’t know her name. 

“Who are you?” she asked. She was no longer surprised by how tired her own voice sounded. 

The girl looked up, blinking at her for a moment before she smiled. “Yuzu Kurosaki, Hinamori-fukutaichō. I’m sorry for not introducing myself before.” Yuzu looked like she wanted to bow, but as she was currently taking Momo’s pulse, that would have been impractical.

 _Fukutaichō_. She did not hear that often. None of the people who visited made a habit of calling her by her rank; it had been so long since she’d even seen the Fifth. That was probably good—she didn’t think she could stand the reminders. 

(He smelled like cedar and steel, and the division always did, too. A lingering, faint trace, like you might find him around the next corner if you went looking. 

_Safety_. _Home_.)

Belatedly, Momo realized she hadn’t responded to the introduction. “Oh, um… no, it’s fine. I’m not really…” she trailed off, unable to finish the sentence. 

Yuzu just smiled and moved to taking her blood pressure. 

The door to the room, ajar already, slid open the rest of the way. The bang it made upon hitting the end of the track was too loud for the space, but Kiyone didn’t really seem to notice, shuffling in with an armful of yellow daffodils and a bundle of something tucked under her arm. She filled the room without intending to.

“Hello Momo, Yuzu-chan!” The bundle went on one of the counters while she changed out the flowers, permeating the area with a subtle scent of the outdoors and floral perfume. 

(It was far too feminine to remind her of him.)

“Hello, Kotetsu-san,” Yuzu replied, stepping back from Momo to make more notes on her chart. “What’s that?”

Kiyone had no sense for flower arrangement—the daffodils mostly just wound up in a big bunch in the vase—but she fluffed the petals a little bit, then turned to the bundle. Now that Momo looked at it, it seemed to be a stack of paper tied together. 

“These are for you. The SWA collected them.” She placed them in Momo’s hands with little ceremony.

It did, indeed, appear to be a bundle of envelopes. Untying the string that bound them all together, Momo read the front of each, all labeled in precise handwriting that she recognized as Nanao’s. 

‘Shinigami Women’s Association,’ said the first. The second, thickest envelope bore the label ‘Fifth Division,’ and the last just said ‘Other.’

“What are they?” Momo asked, frowning.

“Open them and find out,” Kiyone replied, taking a seat on the edge of her bed. She kicked her legs back and forth—Momo could feel the motion.

(Nothing about him was extraneous. He moved when necessary. He was still, otherwise—like the surface of a pond.)

Momo wasn’t sure she wanted to read anything to do with the Fifth, so she handed that one and the one without a specific label back to Kiyone, who accepted them without protest. Opening the flap of the SWA envelope, Momo tipped its contents out into her lap.

It looked to be an assortment of paper and card stock. Picking up the one on top, she tilted her head, trying to figure out what was supposed to be depicted. It looked like maybe a rabbit and a small bear or something. The caption read ‘Get Well Soon, Hinamori!’ Opening the card, she saw Rukia Kuchiki’s signature at the bottom. 

“They’re get-well cards. And letters, some of them. From the SWA, and your division, and lots of the other people that know you.” 

Momo glanced up. Kiyone was smiling brightly at her. 

(He was bright, too, but was it the same kind of bright as this? The same kind of warm?)

“Go on,” she insisted. “Go through the rest. There must be a hundred.”

It turned out that Momo wasn’t out of tears. 

But these were a different kind.

* * *

When Nanao visited for the dozenth time, half a year in, she brought a sketchbook and several charcoal pencils with her. 

“I recalled that you like to draw,” she said, pushing her glasses up her nose. “I thought it might be prudent to bring you something to do besides reading.”

 _Prudent_. Her attitude was always pragmatic. Momo liked that about her. The way her kindness was subtle. It meant she didn’t have to be effusive, either—and she didn’t have the energy, most days. A simple thank you would do, and Nanao was satisfied. 

“I also brought you an update, from the Fifth.” Nanao took a chair beside Momo’s bed, laying a large binder on her lap and placing her hands on it. “Would you like to hear it?”

(The Fifth was his. Theirs. She didn’t know what it would be without him.)

“I…” Momo closed her mouth, dropping her eyes to her hands. Could she stand it? Knowing about a version of her Division that existed without him? A version that existed without _her_? For so long, the Fifth had been her home. 

“Hinamori-san.” Nanao regarded her steadily. 

Momo could almost feel herself wilting under it. 

“I know that this is difficult. I cannot understand what you are going through. But there are people out there who care about you. Who love you, and want the best for you. I…” Nanao pursed her lips. “I _do_ understand what it is like to have a captain whom you admire greatly. Whom you rely on, when you believe that you alone are not enough for something. But you are not merely an attachment to him, and you never were.”

Nanao glanced down at the binder and then back up to Momo. “I have been running your division for three and a half years. And not once in all that time has anyone ever spoken an ill word against you. In fact, they want you back—all of them. Not him, not both of you together— _you_. If you don’t want to go back, if you feel that it would be too painful, then that is your choice to make. But do not for a moment assume that even one of them would fail to welcome you if you returned.”

Momo swallowed. 

(He was home, he was the sun, he was everything.

Could she live without him?)

“I would… I would like to hear your report, Ise-san.”

Nanao smiled. 

Momo couldn’t return it, but she could listen. 

And maybe, just maybe, part of her felt a little lighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a little heavier than what I usually write. But Momo turns a corner in the next chapter (has already started turning it, actually). Recovery from circumstances like this is a complex process, one that happens differently for everyone. In an attempt to adhere as well as I can to the realities of such situations, she is not going to be magically rid of all her problems by the end of this fic. But I promise it will be at least a hopeful end.


	2. Daybreak

Izuru wasn’t looking at her. 

Momo could understand; she didn’t really feel all that comfortable looking at him, either. 

In the eight months since she woke, they’d moved her from her hospital room in the Fourth to a long-term recovery space. It was usually reserved for those recuperating from organ replacement or the loss of limb, something vital like that. 

When she’d asked Isane if she should really be allowed to use it, considering, Isane had told her that just because her wounds weren’t right there for everyone to see didn’t mean they weren’t grave enough to qualify. 

The firmness in her tone had left no room for argument, so here she was. 

The reason she didn’t want to look at Izuru was because it was a little bit like looking into a mirror. His eyes looked so… dead, compared to everyone else’s. The same hollowness shone out of him as she imagined must have shone out of her—the yawning chasm of something gone, never to be replaced. 

He was a satellite adrift in empty space—just like her—with no sun to orbit anymore. 

“I guess… I guess they’re really gone, aren’t they?”

She wanted to blame Ichimaru. She wanted to. 

(He wasn’t warm, he wasn’t soft. Not like Aizen-taichō. But he had been the center of his own solar system nevertheless.)

But it didn’t even matter anymore, whose fault it was. Aizen-taichō wasn’t here for her to lean on. And Izuru’s pain was a lot like hers: the slump in his shoulders, the circles under his eyes, the too-sharp lines of his face. He was grieving.

And if he was a mirror of her, she was grieving, too.

You couldn’t grieve if you hadn’t lost anything.

Izuru raised his head a little, meeting her eyes. Slowly, he nodded. “Yeah, Momo. They’re really gone.”

She pursed her lips. 

“I… I loved him. Aizen-taichō. I guess…” She dropped her eyes back to her hands. “I guess everyone probably knew that. I’ve never been good at hiding things.”

She heard a soft scuff as Izuru took a step closer. He pulled in a deep breath; she closed her eyes. 

“Some of us did,” he admitted. “But we wouldn’t—we haven’t told everyone else or anything. We always thought… it was up to you, to tell people or not.” 

He came to a stop in front of the armchair she occupied. There was a rustle of fabric—Momo opened her eyes. He’d knelt to be on a level with her. Slowly, he sat back into seiza, in front of her chair. His throat worked when he swallowed; in the silence, she could hear it. 

“That doesn’t make you weak, Momo. It just means… that you lost something different than the rest of us lost. Something more.” 

She pulled her lip between her teeth. “Why can’t I get better, Izuru? Why can’t I stop thinking of him? I just want to go back to the Fifth, but I know I can’t. Everything reminds me of him. Everything I do… everywhere I could go. He was in all of it. I can’t…” Her fingers clenched in the fabric at her knees—a plain white kimono provided by the Fourth. 

Izuru exhaled; he was close enough that she could feel it on her forearm, through her sleeve. “You don’t have to rush this, Momo,” he said—so softly she almost didn’t hear over the sound of her own heart. 

“There’s no deadline here. No one expects you to be able to forget or move on so easily.”

She shook her head. “My division needs a vice-captain, Izuru. If I just stay here like this—”

“They’ll understand,” he said, leaning forward slightly. 

Only when he placed his hand over hers, carefully easing it away from her knee, did she realize how tightly she’d been holding on. She laced her fingers with his, bowing over halfway. 

“I miss him,” she whispered. “Does that make me a traitor?”

Izuru rested the palm of his other hand against the back of hers. “No,” he said decisively. “No Momo, it doesn’t. It just makes you human.”

Some days, it felt like all she could do was cry. Momo slumped forward further, sliding off the chair and onto the ground in front of him. She pressed her forehead to his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “Izuru...”

“I’m sorry, too,” he replied, gingerly patting her on the back. 

“I’m so sorry, Momo.”

* * *

The tree was ashes, now. 

Momo could only stare blankly at it. She felt nothing—not even sadness. Just… empty. He’d taken most of her with him when he left, and what remained had been cried out by now. She moved and spoke still—but it was puppetry, not life. 

“I don’t know who I am without him,” she said, pulling her knees to her chest and draping her arms over them. “That’s not… that’s not how it’s supposed to be, is it?”

Her parents had died several years ago. She’d been sad, very much so—but she hadn’t felt like everything in the world had no meaning anymore. She hadn’t felt like someone had cut her open and spilled her insides out onto the ground before they sewed her back up. 

She hadn’t been _afraid_ to go back to her old house, or smell the marigolds in her father’s garden. 

Maybe it was just because _he_ wasn’t dead. 

(He was alive somewhere, and as perfect as he’d ever been.)

“No,” Tobiume admitted, “but it’s how it is.”

Momo sighed. “It’s so hard,” she murmured. “Even trying to remember what’s true. I keep asking everyone the same questions, because… I might forget the real answers if I don’t.” She automatically wanted to deny them, too—deny anything someone said about her captain that wasn’t complimentary.

“But you realize that now,” Tobiume said. “You didn’t before.”

Momo shook her head faintly. “I think part of me did. But… I always get distracted. I remember something about him, or how he made me feel, and it’s like I go right back to when I first woke up and couldn’t make myself believe Renji.”

She couldn’t make herself believe _herself_ , even. 

“If he’s that… that deep in my head, what’s left if he’s not here?”

Tobiume stood, walking over to the remnants of the burned out tree. Looking back over her shoulder, she gestured for Momo to follow. Reluctantly, she stood, wrapping her arms around herself and taking slow steps towards the spot. The wind was still active, but it no longer felt like it was going to pick her up off her feet, at least. 

The sky was no lighter, though. 

When she drew even with Tobiume, the spirit turned her eyes on the ashes. 

“Haven’t you ever thought it strange, that part of you was fire?”

“I…” Momo considered it. “I suppose so. But I used to be more…” she grimaced. Bright. Warm. 

(A candle against the sun.)

The wind gusted, lifting much of the ash from the ground. It swirled in the air before them, scattering in all directions. The debris dusted her white kimono with grey. When Momo tried to brush it off, it smeared. 

“Sometimes, when a forest or some other area becomes overgrown, fire can actually be a healthy thing,” Tobiume explained. “It burns away what was twisted and tangled and dense, and the ash fertilizes the ground so that new things can grow in place of the old.” The spirit folded her hands into her sleeves. 

“You have to decide whether his absence will make way for something new, or just burn you down. That is one thing he does not have the power to choose for you.”

* * *

Kiyone brought a sense of restless activity with her wherever she went. Right along with the flowers, when she showed up here. Momo wondered, sometimes, if Ukitake-taichō had any left in his gardens at all, or if she’d had to start going somewhere else to find them. Her visits were like clockwork—every single Thursday. 

“Good afternoon, Momo!” Kiyone made a beeline for the windowsill where the vase was, changing out the browning blooms from the week before for the new ones, soft pink peonies this time. 

Momo actually didn’t know a lot about flowers—she’d never been the horticulturalist her father was. But they smelled nice, and looked pretty sitting in the window, and they in no way reminded her of Aizen-taichō. 

She liked that about them. 

Her eyes fell to her sketchbook, and the lifelike rendering of his face on the page. She grimaced. 

“What’cha got there?” Kiyone asked, tilting her head to look at the sketch. 

Momo went to snap the book closed, but it was too late. She’d already seen. 

“Wow, that’s amazing!”

“It is?” Momo’s eyes widened, gaze flickering to Kiyone. “But… it’s…”

“So?” Kiyone crossed her arms. “You’re allowed to care, still. I won’t tell anyone.”

Momo nodded, but turned the page anyway, smoothing the heel of her hand over the blank sheet. Sometimes, she started out trying to draw something else, but it always became him, no matter what she did. Setting her charcoal stick down, she rubbed at the side of her finger where it had stained her skin. Like ash. 

“The SWA had another meeting yesterday,” Kiyone went on, flopping gracelessly to the floor with her feet out in front of her. She leaned back on her hands. “Rukia thinks we should ask for a line item on the budget to do to making shihakushō with pockets. Apparently, they’re on everything in the living world, even dresses and things.” 

Kiyone wrinkled her nose on the word ‘dresses,’ and Momo almost smiled. 

“Well… I know I probably can’t vote without being there, but that seems like a nice idea to me.” 

“I thought so, too! Men can just keep things between the layers, but if we touch our chests like that, everyone thinks it’s weird!” Kiyone’s eyes narrowed with the force of her smile. 

Everything about her overflowed. Momo wondered how she could sustain that much energy all the time—it was completely opposite how she felt. The contrast was both soothing and painful all at once. 

( _He_ had always been still, calm, sober. Kiyone was the opposite of him in every way. It was harder to think of him when someone like that was around.)

“Kiyone-san?”

She tilted her head to the side. “Yeah?”

Momo swallowed. “Um… you don’t have to answer, but… what would you do, if it had been your captain that…” her mouth clicked shut.

She felt terrible when Kiyone’s smile faded. The Thirteenth’s third seat tipped her feet from side to side, touching her toes together only to bounce them away again. Her eyes stayed there, too, for an uncurling moment. 

“I don’t know, Momo. I don't think anyone really knows, except the people who’ve gone through that.” She puffed her cheeks, then expelled all the air at once. “I dunno what everyone else is telling you, but… if you wanna cry until you’re sick or drink until you can’t remember for a while… sometimes, that’s what you’ve gotta do.” She looked up, half her smile returning in a wry twist of the lips.

“But I do know one thing. If my captain betrayed Soul Society—betrayed _me_ —I’d go to my sister, and my friends, and spend as much time with them as I could. To remind me of all the good things in the world.” 

Momo’s shoulders slumped. “I don’t have a sister,” she said slowly. “And I think… I’m afraid I’ve pushed my friends away.” At the very least, she was an imposition on them. A burden. 

“Well, that’s not true,” Kiyone countered immediately. “I’m still your friend, and I bet the others would say the same. As for sisters…” she lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “You can share mine for a while, if you want.”

Momo felt something inside her unclench. “I… I don’t think it quite works that way, Kiyone-san.”

“’Course it does!” Kiyone replied. “It’s easy. Isane and me go out together all the time, just to spend time with each other. We don’t drink or anything—we just look around for fun stuff to do.” She paused a moment, blinking at Momo. “Actually… we were gonna go see the Tanabata festival in the Rukongai this weekend. Do you want to come?”

Momo parted her lips to speak, but no response was immediately forthcoming. She’d… never really considered leaving, in all honesty. Part of her was simply afraid to do so. But it was difficult to imagine anything more benign than a street festival; she remembered Tanabata with her parents and Shiro-chan and his grandmother. 

She hadn’t attended in decades. 

“If… if it’s really okay with Isane-san, then… yes. I will go.”

* * *

Momo turned the shears over and over in her hands. They glinted in the overhead light—the metal had been sharpened and polished to a shine. They had a heaviness to them that Tobiume didn’t. But of course, that was only logical—zanpakutō were meant to be effortless for the wielder. 

With a soft _snikt_ , she pulled them open. She could feel the grinding of the blades as she closed them again. Momo set them down next to the bathroom sink, sighing and bracing her hands on either side of it. She closed her eyes and pulled in a fortifying breath. It cost her too much effort to lift her head, but she did—opening her eyes before she could second-guess herself again. 

She almost didn’t recognize the version of herself in the mirror. For nearly eight months, she had not dared to look into one, for fear of what she would find. 

It… wasn’t as bad as she’d been expecting, but worse than what she’d been hoping for. 

Her sleep was still fitful at best; her drawn complexion was evidence enough of that. The unsteady nature of her appetite showed itself in the too-sharp protrusions of her cheekbones. But worst of all was her hair. 

It was always so unruly when it was long—impossible to do anything with, except tie it up in a bun. But if she did that, she’d want to wrap it, to keep it tidy. 

(It was the one gift he’d ever given her—and it was for her _hair_. Such a personal thing. Between a captain and his subordinate, it was an overreach. 

But he’d never intended for her to think of herself _only_ as his subordinate, had he?

He’d wanted her to worship the ground he walked on.

She had.)

Reaching back, Momo pulled out the tie holding her hair in place at the nape of her neck. It spilled over her neck and shoulders, the ends touching her shoulderblades through the fabric of her kimono. There was nothing particularly extraordinary about it—it was dark brown, not quite straight but not curly, either. In truth, she thought it lank. She didn’t mind her appearance, really; she’d spent much more time thinking about training and paperwork than hair and clothes. 

But right now, this was important. 

Brushing it all over her left shoulder with her hand, she picked up the shears with her right. 

She was cutting him out of her life. Cutting away the overgrown branches on her tree. She would throw it all on the pyre in her heart and see what sprang up from the ashes, just like Tobiume said. 

Her hand shook when she raised the shears. Biting her lip, Momo closed her eyes and her fingers at the same time. The blades rasped with her breath, slicing the silence in two.

The scissors cut through her hair as easily as paper. Momo was left holding half a foot of who she’d used to be, and looking at someone a little newer in the mirror. Jagged at the edges, raw, hurting. But cutting away what was infected, and beginning to scab over.

She smiled.

* * *

“That’s a cute haircut, Momo,” Kiyone said immediately upon seeing it. 

She breezed into Momo’s room, a pair of yukata slung over her shoulder and her sister trailing behind at a much more sedate pace. 

“Would you like me to even the ends for you?” Isane asked, tipping her head to the side. “I cut Kiyone’s hair all the time.”

The offer surprised her, but she nodded. “I… couldn’t really see in the back,” she admitted. 

Isane shook her head. “That happens a lot. Don’t worry; it won’t take long.”

Kiyone, setting the yukata down on the bed and reaching for the third one Isane was carrying, jerked her chin at the single chair at the small table Momo had for meals. “Wanna use that?”

“That seems best.” Isane pulled it out so Momo could sit.

She did, perching herself on the end of it to make it easier for the other woman to reach her hair without the chair back in the way. Isane ran her fingers through Momo’s chopped locks, humming thoughtfully. It felt curiously comforting—the touch was benign in the way Momo associated with most everyone at the Fourth, but without the gloves in between, it was warmer than usual. 

Kiyone must have found the shears, because they were in Isane’s other hand a moment later. “If I make it all even, it’ll be around your chin,” Isane said. “Is that okay?”

Momo started to nod, but then realized that might not be a great idea when someone was trying to get her hair to lay right. “Um… that’s fine, Isane-san.”

“Okay. Hold still for just a couple minutes then.” 

The rhythmic clicking of the scissors was a mindless sound that didn’t remind her of anything. At one point, Isane combed several strands of her hair in front of her face to measure them, then held them between her first two fingers to cut in sure, practiced clips. 

“My father used to do this for me, when I was a little girl,” Momo said. “Mom was never much good at things like that, but she was an amazing smith.”

“What did she make?” Isane asked, taking a step to the left to get at another section of Momo’s hair. 

“Well, kitchen things, mostly. No weapons in the Rukongai, not even the First District. Some farming implements, too.” 

“Our mom was in the Kidō Corps,” Kiyone said. “She’s retired now, though. Dad runs the household stuff.” 

Momo wondered if maybe Isane and Kiyone were nobles. They didn’t act like it, but then—not all of them did. Neither of them was too much like she thought of a noblewoman being, but she supposed there was a kind of inherent gentility about them. Well… about one of them, anyway. 

“There,” Isane said quietly. “All done.” She ruffled Momo’s hair a little, to settle everything in place, then stepped back. 

“It really is cute,” Kiyone confirmed. 

Momo half-smiled. “Thank you. I’m… I’m happy with it.”

Kiyone grinned. “And a smile, too? Must be our lucky day, Isane!”

Momo felt like it might be hers.

The younger Kotetsu snapped her fingers. “Oh! And we brought you a yukata. We weren’t sure if you had one you wanted to wear, so you can borrow one of mine.” 

Isane was much too tall, but Kiyone might be just about her size. Still…

“I… are you sure?” 

“Of course,” Isane replied gently. “We’re happy to do it.”

Momo realized that they’d let her borrow one because there was no way she could accidentally remember him that way. Neither of them had anyway of knowing what would trigger the memories, so they’d chosen something that couldn’t. She pressed a hand to her sternum, swallowing thickly. 

“…Thank you.”

Kiyone gripped her hand and pulled her up off the chair. “Don’t say that yet; you still have to pick which one you want!” With a few steps and a dramatic flourish, she led Momo over to the bed, where all of them had been laid out. 

Isane’s was obviously the dark blue. The other two were a bright yellow with a pink sakura pattern, and a mint green with white chrysanthemums, thicker towards the hem. Momo ran her hand down the side of the yellow one; they were only yukata, but the fabric was soft and smooth. 

“Um… which one would you like?” she asked Kiyone; she didn’t want to accidentally choose the one the other woman preferred. 

Kiyone shrugged. “I _really _don’t care,” she said, huffing a laugh. “Trust me. I wouldn’t even own these if my parents didn’t insist.” She paused. “Though it is nice to feel girly sometimes, I guess.”__

Momo pursed her lips. “Then… I like the green, if you want the yellow?”

“Perfect! Let’s put them on; the festival’s already started, so it should really be going by the time we get there!”

* * *

Momo’s first steps away from the Fourth in nearly four years were not as momentous as she’d expected. 

Maybe she’d been ready for this for a while now.

The route they took out of the Seireitei neatly avoided the Fifth; Momo breathed a sigh of relief when they made it past the gate without anyone stopping them. Or even noticing, really. 

The First District was where she’d grown up; it was familiar to her in the way that childhood was. She breathed deeply of the air, and smelled neither cedar nor steel. Out here, it was just frying food and lamp-oil and incense. 

The main road in the district had been lined with little stalls; dangling lanterns in many colors lit the night-darkened street, casting everything she could see into happy blushing pinks and warm oranges. Momo walked slowly, intentionally avoiding large crowds—but with Isane on one side and Kiyone on the other, she felt just insulated enough to be comfortable. 

“Okay Momo, what do we do? I’ve never been to a Tanabata in the Rukongai before, so I’ll need your expert advice!” Kiyone was goggling at just about all of it, squirming in place—clearly, she wanted permission to try one of everything. 

Isane was much more sedate, but that was normal. 

“Oh, um…” Momo tried to think back. “Well, I remember the food always being good. And there are games, sometimes, with prizes.” 

They passed a takoyaki stand. Momo paused for half a second—apparently plenty of time for Kiyone to notice. She linked their arms at the elbow and walked them over to the vendor. 

“Three, please.”

The food was far too hot; Kiyone burned her tongue and made a show of fanning it afterwards. “How do people eat this?”

“By not stuffing their faces,” Isane replied. 

Momo shook her head at the look on Kiyone’s face, but she couldn’t help smiling. It faded slightly, though; she turned to Isane. “Have you been to one of these before, Isane-san?”

“Once,” she said, shrugging her shoulders.

“Isane came to Tanabata a few years ago on a _date_ ,” Kiyone stage-whispered, leaning in towards Momo. Her takoyaki was still in her other hand. She took a bite, without the dramatics this time—presumably it had cooled. 

Her sister rolled her eyes, clearing her throat. “No one wants to hear about that, Kiyone. Honestly.” Affectionate frustration—not so unlike a tone Momo used to take with Tōshirō—colored her voice. 

“That’s not what everyone else says, since it was with Eighth Seat _Ogidō_.” Kiyone’s fox-faced grin expanded; her eyes narrowed. 

Isane ran a hand down her face. 

“Oh, I’ve heard of him,” Momo put in. “Some of the women in the Fifth seemed quite… enthusiastic?” 

(She’d only ever been able to think of _him_ , but it hadn’t completely drowned her awareness of other people.)

“He’s weirdly popular,” Kiyone agreed. “I don’t get it, myself.” She shook her head. 

Isane sighed. “He’s very nice,” she defended. “And modest.”

“And _boring_.” 

“That’s unkind of you, Kiyone.”

“Just admit he bored you to tears, Isane.” Kiyone prodded her sister in the ribs, sighing when it got her nothing but a mildly disapproving frown.

Isane looked like she’d rather be talking about _anything_ else. “He’s just not my type,” she insisted, and closed her mouth. 

Momo decided to rescue her. “Um… that’s a fish-catching game!” she blurted, pointing her free hand at the stall in question. “Maybe you could win one for Ukitake-taichō?”

Kiyone’s eyes widened; she clapped her hands together. “That’s perfect! I can use it to apologize for all the flowers I, uh… borrowed.” She broke away from the two of them, half-running, half-skipping up to the stall and speaking excitedly to the elderly woman running it. 

“Thank you,” Isane said with obvious relief.

“No problem,” Momo replied, offering half a smile. “She’s… very energetic. I think I never quite knew how much.”

With a laugh, Isane shook her head. “She keeps me from taking things too seriously. But I do occasionally have to pay for that.” 

“Isane, Momo! I caught a fish!”

* * *

They’d been walking around for several hours when they were waved down. 

“Hey, Hinamori-san! Kotetsu-san!” 

Momo heard the voice—was fairly sure she recognized it—but she could not for the life of her see the speaker. 

“Oh look; it’s Abarai-san and Matsumoto-san.” Isane raised a hand to wave at someone across the street—but Momo wasn’t tall enough to actually spot the people in question. 

“Is it okay if we meet them, or should I make our excuses?” There was nothing at all impatient or judgmental in Isane’s voice—she asked it like it was a question she regularly asked her friends or her sister. Like it was perfectly normal to feel overwhelmed in the midst of a few close acquaintances. Like there was nothing to be worried about or ashamed of. 

Oddly enough, that made Momo certain she would be all right. “I’d like to see them, actually.”

Isane’s mouth turned up at the corner, and she dipped her chin. By then, the other group—which included Rukia, who’d called over first—had made it across the street. It looked to be just the three of them, which was for the best; Momo wasn’t sure how she’d have felt about a larger set. 

“Isane-san. Momo.” Renji looked a little surprised to see her there. 

Momo couldn’t blame him. “Hello, you three,” she said quietly. 

“Is that a new haircut? It’s adorable!” Rangiku reached halfway forward, then paused, tilting her head at Momo. 

She nodded. The other vice-captain’s hand completed its motion and ruffled her new bob. 

“Oh hey! What are you guys doing here? Do you want to get fireworks?” Kiyone, tucking something into her obi, returned just in time to greet the others. 

“Sounds fun,” Rukia said. 

A round of nods from the rest, and they were off towards the vendor of sparklers and other small-scale pyrotechnics. Renji and Isane dropped back to walk a few feet behind; Momo found herself flanked by Kiyone and Rangiku, one arm occupied by each. Rukia, apparently aware of where they needed to go, led the way. 

All of them in yukata and not their shihakushō—in the middle of festivities like this—drew no more notice than any other cluster of young friends enjoying the event. None of the sellers she spoke to knew the first thing about her predicament, and none of her friends acted like she was glass; not anymore. They were careful, but no more than they would have been with someone who had suffered a physical wound of some kind. Momo found that, at this juncture, that was exactly what she needed. 

She stood under a yellow paper lantern while the others fetched sparklers, head tipped back to stare at the soft glow of it. 

(The sun, the center, the core of everything. 

But maybe she didn’t _need_ to orbit anyone else. Maybe she could just float freely, for a while.

It was a lovely thought.)

“Here you go!” Kiyone handed her an already-lit sparkler, and Momo held it upside down, watching the sparks fly off the end and fizzle out before they hit the ground. The others stood in a circle with her—even Renji, who looked a little perplexed by the obvious joy the little fireworks brought everyone. 

Momo grinned at him when one of the sparks jumped to the sleeve of his dark yukata. He jerked back, far too seriously for such a small thing, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. But then he caught her expression and grinned back. 

Rukia’s face was lit a shade of warm orange by hers; Isane had used some kind of kidō trick to turn hers blue instead. 

“Oh, teach me that!” Rangiku waved her own, drawing shapes in the air with the smoke. 

By the end, everyone had it—even Renji. 

“Why would you just turn yours red? It’s already almost red anyway.” Rukia’s was purple.

“Hey. Red’s the best color. And it’s not the same as the normal one at all.”

“Whatever. I bet you just can’t change it that much.”

Renji scowled. 

Momo laughed.

* * *

When she went to write her wish down that night, it didn’t take her long to decide what she wanted. 

_I wish for good soil, and new growth_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Term Dictionary_ :
> 
>  _Tanabata_ – 七夕 – “Evening of the Seventh.” Also called the Star Festival, the event celebrates the meeting of Orihime (the deity the Bleach character is named after) and Hikoboshi, represented by the stars Vega and Altair. According to legend, the Milky Way separates the lovers, and they are able to meet only once a year (on the seventh day of the seventh lunar month). The date varies on the solar calendar accordingly. One frequent tradition in Japanese celebration of Tanabata is the writing of a wish on small pieces of paper and tying them to bamboo. The wishes are set afloat on a river or burned the next day. So that’s what the last two lines reference.
> 
> * * *
> 
> That’s it for this one. Momo’s not exactly back to fully-functioning yet, but she’s making a lot of progress, and will be back at the Fifth in time for my version of the Winter War. 
> 
> As always, feedback is much appreciated; I don't actually have the faintest idea what I'm doing, so it's good to have a bit of help with the steering. ^_^;


End file.
